Daughter of Albion (20 page)

I shook off his hands. ‘As if they would listen to me in this—'

‘Do you not understand? You have a gift. The journeymen think you are called to be Kendra—but it is something far less shrouded in mystery. It is the gift of leadership. An allure, a natural wisdom that others will follow. The men of Rome who possess it rise to Consul or Emperor.'

I was spun beyond speaking. The Kendra's call was no mere gift. It was a cry from the Mothers. Undeniable. ‘This is desecration,' I said.

‘By some, yes, but true nonetheless. Ailia, I love you and I am choosing you. I can offer you a great deal. Consider your decision.'

I reeled from his words, from his love. ‘You ask me to deny what has always been.'

‘Nothing remains the same. Is that not the first lesson of the journeypeople? Change will happen. The great among us will ride it like a chariot.'

‘Stop. You are speaking against the truth of our wisepeople. The truth of the Mothers.'

‘The Mothers are revered by those who have not seen what men can do. It is not the hidden forces, Ailia, that strengthen us—it is our own forces.'

But were they not the same force? That which was hidden in the rivers and trees, and that which moved through us as breath and blood? How could they be separated? How could one be greater than the other?

The stars above us began to sway and the wall itself seemed to lurch beneath me. I braced my hands on the stone for balance.

Ruther sat solid as iron beside me. How tempting it was to yield to the assuredness he offered. To be part of his certainty.

The other way I was alone. The strength I needed would have to be mine.

That night I dreamed of Taliesin.

He was calling to me across a river of stones, his face in bright sun. My feet were bare and the stones were jagged. As I ran to him, I slipped on my own blood.

My heart bashed me awake and I lay in the strange bed at Mai Cad, unable to find sleep for the brightness of his face in my memory.

I thought of the two men who had entered my cosmos.

Ruther was a cloak I could wrap around me.

Taliesin was an arrow that had pierced my soul.

Our tribelands are nourished by ritual.
Flood, disease and weak crops occur where bonds with the Mothers have not been renewed.

T
HE TRIBAL LEADERS
of Durotriga could not agree.

The same independence of spirit that had kept them free of the Great Bear—and free of each other—now meant that whatever the Roman forces brought each region would face on its own.

Ruther left in disgust for the east, on bad terms with Cun and several others.

I was the only one he sought out to farewell.

Our party left late in the afternoon and arrived at Caer Cad by highsun the next day. By the time of our return, all of the tribespeople had heard that I was to go to temple. Many rushed out to offer greetings as we rode in through the gates, casting petals that caught in my hair. Others hissed and spat as I passed. There was great joy that the Mothers had finally marked a Kendra, but it was utterly bewildering that it fell on a skinless woman. They knew that without skin, my Kendrahood, so deeply craved, would never be realised.

I stared down at the upturned faces, full of questions and hope, and I felt, for the first time, the kindling awareness that my knowledge was not only for me, nor even for Taliesin. It was for them.

Ianna and Bebin ran out to meet me at the stables. As I dismounted and kissed them, the greatest excitement was Bebin's. Uaine had sung her the song of skin while I was gone and she would marry him this moon.

‘Be prepared for Cookmother,' Bebin warned as we walked to the kitchen. ‘Her chest is worsened and it spoils her temper.' She glanced at me. ‘That and the loss of her favourite workdaughter.'

Cookmother was resting in her bed. Her face was pale and her forehead, when I crouched to kiss it, was damp with sweat.

I propped her more comfortably and brewed her a tea of yarrow leaves for fever. Despite my care, she was determined to deepen the chasm between us. She watched me as I unpacked my bundle. ‘What is that?' she said as I lifted out a fine bone brooch.

‘A gift from Cun.' I held it forth. ‘Look—the sweetest carving of a thrush.'

She turned her face away.

I tried again. ‘Have you survived well enough the attendance of Cah while I was gone?'

‘Most perfectly well,' she grunted over her shoulder.

Sulis had left word that tomorrow's mid-morning was favourable for departure. These were my last hours in the kitchen. I could not bear that they would be spoiled in this wordlessness. The ill temper Cookmother had always shown to others, but never to me, was now to be my farewell gift.

We had but one day to make and dye the wedding cloth, for Bebin wanted my blessing in it.

Ianna was using the warp loom to speed the fabric, with Bebin at her side. Together they walked the length of the loom and back again, passing the shuffles smoothly between them. Cah was weaving ribbon on a small tape loom and I was crushing blackberries and scraping the pulp into a steaming pot of dark blue liquid. Cookmother slept, snoring noisily.

We had placed juniper outside the doorway to warn our men not to enter. Dying was strictly women's work and the presence of a man would curse the cloth. Especially near wedding time.

Only those skilled in plantcraft could work the dye pots. Cookmother usually left it to me, as the pots were too heavy for her now. I was dying berry for good fortune and kelp for protection. Both pots had to be mixed and dipped by the end of the day. Tomorrow the moon would turn and it would be a poor time to fix the colour and craft into the cloth.

The air was pungent with the aroma of bubbling fruits and the large pot of stale urine in which we would soak the cloth so it would better take the dye. Often we would sing stories into the flax as it was woven, but today there was too much to discuss.

‘Sisters,' I said, ‘with two of us to be gone from the kitchen, I am worried for Cookmother. The sound in her chest is not good and she needs to be tended.'

‘Then we need another girl,' snapped Cah. ‘My days are too laden as it is, and I would take marriage if it were offered.'

‘She will have my loyalty,' said Ianna. ‘I am not sure I will ever marry.'

‘Oh, Ianna.' I smiled but I was far from comforted. ‘Are you quite certain,' I asked Bebin, half in jest, ‘that you prefer Uaine to the kitchen?'

‘Oh, I'd prefer him,' burst Ianna, ‘he is handsome as a king.'

‘There are many you'd prefer,' said Cah. ‘But none who'd take you.'

Ianna made a face.

‘Bebin?' I pressed.

‘I am pleased to marry Uaine, as you know, Ailia,' she answered gently. ‘I will come to Cookmother every day and tend her well. But I suspect that it is not
my
certainty you are questioning.'

I stirred the boiling liquid. She was right. My heart was not resolved to leave the kitchen and I did not know how to make it so.

‘Cease,' called Ianna. There was a clack as the last length of twine sent the warp weights knocking against the loom frame. ‘Look!' She reached up to unhook the cloth from the upper pole, ‘I have tied off my final loop. Now we have a wedding cloth to dye.'

I stood by the well trough at sunfall, scrubbing the last stains of blue dye from my hands. Dogs drifted around the quiet street. Blackbirds keened. My last day in Cad.

I did not notice Heka approaching until she was right beside me. I nodded a greeting. I had not seen her since before the rains. She had gained a small amount of weight, braided her hair, and washed the dirt from her moss-coloured dress. But although the corners of her face were softened, the pall of anger around her was not.

‘It is said you are to leave Cad. And Bebin to marry.' She appeared sober and clear-minded, and for this she made me more nervous.

‘How have you heard it?'

‘Cah,' she answered. ‘She is not afraid to companion me.'

Cah is not well supplied in companions, I thought to say, but did not. Heka was like green wood in a fire. ‘She has told you true,' I said, ‘I leave tomorrow.'

‘My friend Cah,' she continued, shifting on her feet, ‘thinks it well that I come into the Tribequeen's kitchen when you and Bebin are gone.'

‘It is not for Cah to determine.' I dried my hands on my skirt. ‘You know it is impossible.'

‘Why?' Her eyes darkened. ‘Do I not deserve for a few seasons what you have enjoyed for all the summers of your life? Or do you prefer to see me cast to the fringes over winter?'

‘I do not. But Fraid would never bring you into her service,' I said.

‘Why not?'

‘Because you are…' I paused, struggling myself to name the nature of her breach.

‘What?' Her lip curled into a snarl. ‘Too impure?'

‘Perhaps.' I sighed, suddenly sorry for her. She had not chosen whatever had befallen her. ‘We have spoken on this before, Heka. I told you then I had no power to help you.'

‘But you are marked to be the Kendra now.' She savoured the observation. ‘Fraid will heed your influence if you speak well of me.'

In truth, I wished Heka no further ill, but the thought of her lying in my bed was horrifying. I shook my head as I gathered up my brushes and soap. ‘I cannot recommend you to Fraid. There are others who await the places before you.'

She trailed one hand over the surface of the trough water. We both watched the ripples that rolled out from her black nails. ‘Your mother would not have thought well of such coldness in a daughter.'

The early night air became solid in my chest. ‘What do you know of my mother?'

Heka stood very still. ‘It was her way to look after those in need.'

A crow's cry halved the sky.

I could scarcely speak for the violence of my heart. ‘Heka, if you have true knowledge of my mother, you must tell me now.'

‘Hah!' She leaned closer, her breath sour. ‘Knowledge is a heat that makes the metal more pliant.'

I took hold of her sinewy forearm, steadying myself against the wild hope that surged within me. ‘I beg you, tell me.'

‘Secure me a place—your place—in the Tribequeen's kitchen and I will consider telling you my knowledge.'

I clutched her arm tighter. My voice was thin. ‘Tell me now.'

She peered at me. Unglazed by ale, her eyes were green and sharp. ‘When it suits me to tell you, you shall know.' She pulled free from my grasp and turned away.

‘Heka—'

She spun around.

‘Why did you not speak of this before?'

‘You did not have the teeth to help me before. And besides,' she said, her face hardening, ugly again, ‘I liked to watch you flounder in your skinlessness. To be without hope of finding it.'

Gradually the floating truths began to make a whole. ‘You know my skin,' I whispered.

‘Yes,' she breathed.

I was as abject before her as a hatchling fallen. ‘Will you give it to me?'

‘Speak to Cookmother,' she said, ‘and speak of this to no one, or you shall learn nothing more.'

I walked back to the kitchen formless, as if my body had dissolved into the night air around me.

The Mothers had answered me.

I would learn of my skin.

My sisters were gathering and feeding the yardstock when I returned. Cookmother was alone, sitting by the fire.

I placed my hands on her rounded shoulders. ‘Will you take some elder water if I warm it?'

‘With thanks, I will not.' She did not look up, but the tendons of her neck softened beneath my touch.

I could not tell her what I had just heard or why my fingers were trembling on her shoulders. But, by the Mothers, I would not leave Cad without healing what was torn between us. ‘May I speak?' I asked without lifting my hands.

She said nothing but did not protest it.

‘You know, more than any other, how much I have wanted to learn,' I began. ‘You have been my teacher when I could not be taught. I have wondered lifelong of the Isle. And now, even beyond the laws of skin, I am called to it.'

Her shoulders stiffened beneath my fingers. Still she did not speak.

‘Durotriga is under threat, Cookmother. I have heard it clearly spoken at Mai Cad. By some mystery it is thought I could be part of its protection. I want to do what is right by the tribes, by Llwyd and Fraid. But more than anything, I want to do what is right by you.' I stepped closer that my belly felt the warmth of her back. ‘You have birthed me with your teaching, with your care.' I closed my eyes. ‘You are my mother.'

She remained silent but reached up for my hand.

My questions spilled over. ‘Why have you pushed me from this path?' I asked. ‘You have warned me from the forest so harshly. Are you so fearful for me? Do you not believe that I have the journeywoman's strength?'

She turned to face me, crushing both of my hands so firmly in hers that I winced. ‘I know you have the strength, Lamb. I have always known it. Oh, I am a stupid old woman and only now do I see it. Fetch some elder water, after all. You will need drink for what I must tell you.'

I poured us both tea and sat beside her at the fire.

She took a long draw, holding her cup in both hands. The hot steam unsettled her chest and for several moments she was bent in a spasm of coughing. When she straightened, her breath was rasping. ‘I fear for you, Ailia, because I, myself, have walked with the Mothers.'

I stared at her face, unable to speak. She was my constant, the one thing that had been unchanging. ‘You are a journeywoman?' I finally breathed.

‘I was,' she said. ‘I trained at the temple. I walked once with the Mothers.' Her face darkened. ‘But they cast me from their place against my will.'

I shifted closer and pressed my temple to hers, marvelling at the unlived greatness of her. She was a kitchen servant but had possessed the power for so much more. She must have wondered of it every day. I drew back my head. ‘Why did you cease to be journeywoman when you returned?'

‘I was too angry. I lost something to the Mothers that they would not give back.'

‘Could you not retrieve it? Could you not journey again?'

‘I tried with all my strength, but I could not pass back.' She looked to me. ‘Then I found you, laid down on the step like a flower—I am selfish.' Her face twitched. She was unpractised with tenderness. ‘I wanted to keep you safe—'

All I was sure of began to unravel. ‘What was it, Cookma?' I asked. ‘What did you lose?'

But her face reddened with tears and her breath started to heave. She shook her head, nose streaming, too grief-stricken to speak any further.

As I tightened my arms around her, it struck me that I had never seen her cry.

As her sobs subsided, I asked her a final time. ‘What should I do, Cookmother, with my call to the Glass Isle?'

‘Go,' she whispered, crushing my hand. ‘Go.'